


ilomilo

by the0dyssey



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Based on a Billie Eilish Song, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes's Plums, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Gen, POV Bucky Barnes, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Steve Rogers, Quote: I'm with you 'til the end of the line, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:13:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24308761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the0dyssey/pseuds/the0dyssey
Summary: The world's a little blurry, or maybe it's his eyes.Two weeks after the fall of the Triskelion, the Winter Soldier is on another mission. No, not from Hydra. He wants to figure out who he is, and the only way he knows how is to find the man he pulled from the water. Because he knew him.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 15
Kudos: 92





	ilomilo

He swallowed hard at the sight. No, this time it wasn’t the dead bodies of victims he had choked the life out of, or a staged car accident, or the ceiling at that god forsaken bank vault where they screwed with his arm and head. It was a picture of him embossed in glass, next to a paragraph of information about the person he supposed he once was.

— _Bucky?_

_Who the hell is Bucky?_

His name was Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, and supposedly he died a hero’s death during the war. He definitely didn’t feel like a hero, and he definitely didn’t feel like he was living. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything. He was a machine, and machines weren’t supposed to go dizzy at the sight of an old life whose memories were just out of reach.

It made sense to him. He would’ve had to come from somewhere _before,_ but he never would’ve pictured this.

“Pretty impressive, isn’t it?” A woman’s voice asked. He turned and pulled the bill of his cap down further. She continued. “I mean, the whole exhibit. It’s kinda crazy it all exists.”

He turned to look at her. She was a small, unassuming girl in khakis and a museum polo. Her name tag read Bella, and she couldn’t have been older than twenty one. He wondered how old he was. The sign said he was born in 1917, so he way only a few short years from being 100, but he knew he looked as though he hadn’t aged a day since the forties.

“Yeah, I suppose,” he answered shortly. He planned to turn away and make for an exit. He’d had enough of looking at the shell of the man he was and pictures of the blonde man, _the man on the bridge_ , that were plastered all over the Smithsonian.

“Huh, you actually kinda look like him,” she said.

He shrugged, trying to defer her attention to something else. The world didn’t know that James Barnes survived the fall from the train.

“Where are you from?” She asked, being a friendly museum attendant and trying to make conversation.

_Oh, you’re from Paramus now? You know it’s illegal to lie on the enlistment form. And seriously, Jersey?_

He shook away the fragment of a memory. “I’m from all over.”

_—You get your orders?_

_The one-o-seventh. Sergeant James Barnes._

“I’ve lived in D.C. my whole life, and I’m a history major over at Georgetown, so if you have any questions, just let me know,” she smiled and began to walk away.

“Wait, can I bother you for some directions?” He asked. He felt regret almost instantly. He didn’t need directions, he should’ve been able to figure it out himself. He can’t trust anyone.

“Sure, where you headed next?”

_Shipping out for England first thing tomorrow._

“New York. I’m kinda finishing a solo trip around the world.” He gripped the strap of his bag tighter with his right hand, while keeping the metal one deep in his pocket.

“Of course! That’s really cool. New York is about a three hour ride north. There’s always outgoing trains from Union Station, so you should be able to go whenever you’d like,” she paused. “You know what? Let me go grab a city map for you from the front desk. I’ll circle Union on it for you.” She smiled again and walked away with a sense of purpose in her step.

He walked around the exhibit aimlessly, taking it all in one last time. This had been the third time he had visited in the last week, but he figured it was a good time to get moving. He knew Hydra was still out there and he didn’t want to risk falling into their hands again, even though he figured that if they knew where he was, they would’ve taken him back already

The pictures of the blonde man, _Steve,_ from when he was smaller caught his eye.

— _I thought you were dead._

_I thought you were smaller._

_—Come on._

_What happened to you?_

_—I joined the Army._

_Did it hurt?_

_—A little._

_Is it permanent?_

_—So far._

_God, shut up_ , he thought. Remembering wan’t good. Remembering got him punished. The display changed to show Steve taller and broader, looking the same way he looked on the helicarrier, wearing that ridiculous striped outfit.

_But you’re keeping the outfit, right?_

“Ah here you are!” The girl returned with a folded paper in hand. “It was nice to meet you,” She trailed off, wanting his name.

“James.”

“You don’t say. Have a nice day, James.”

Even _James_ didn’t sound right to him. Nothing did. The only thing he knew for certain was that he knew the man on the helicarrier was Steve, and he _knew_ him.

He took one last look around the museum. The black and white video of him and Steve caused tears to form in the corner of his eyes, though he couldn’t quite understand why. He felt a familiarity there, pulling at his heart strings and making his chest heavy. The memory was at the forefront of his brain, but he just couldn’t see it. He cursed Hydra under his breath for taking it all from him.

***

The weather in D.C. was beautiful this time of year. Granted, he didn’t know much in the ways of comparison, just that it was warmer and friendlier looking than the harsh terrain of Siberia.

He opened the map and scanned for the red circle over Union, keeping his left hand tucked in his sleeve. It only took him a moment to find it, but just as he did, he caught sight of the WWII memorial. It was on his way, so he figured _why not?_

When he got there, he paced around the circular monument. He stopped in front of the New York column, he felt his heart sink.

_Don’t do anything stupid until I get back._

_—How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you._

_You’re a punk._

_—Jerk. Be careful. Don’t win the war till I get there._

Then there surfaced a memory of a flying car - cherry red with a handful of dames standing around it. He peered around the side of the monument. All of the cars were firmly planted on the ground by four wheels. He dismissed the thought in turn.

He watched how men and women passed to pay their respects, and groups of teenage girls who weaved flowers in between the little soldier statues engraved in the walls. He wondered - if the people here knew who he was, and what he had done, if they would still leave flowers.

Who was he kidding, they probably would. He was the only one like him. No one else turned out this way.

As he passed through the city on his way to the train station, he took the long way around the reflection pond in order to avoid going down the street that housed the Federal Reserve Bank. He’d been there once since he was free, found it empty, and sought to it that it was destroyed. He punched holes through the cinderblocks and bent every metal savings box out of shape.

But nothing amounted to how he felt after he shredded that god forsaken chair.

He tore it down to its last metal scrap. Same with the machine that scrambled his brain and the intravenous drip that kept him doped up. Finally, he found the piece of plastic that they stuck between his teeth, and pulverized it into dust with a single flex of his metal hand. It was the first time he remembered _feeling_ something.

He never wanted to go back there again.

Luckily, buying a ticket was a simple affair. No identification needed, just money, which he had plenty of after he swiped the wallets of a few passersby. He only took the cash, and left behind the vessels, drivers’ licenses, and credit cards for the sake of making himself feel better. The wallets would most-likely make their way back to their proper owners eventually.

He sat down in a seat towards the back of the train and pinned his ticket to the front of his seat so the conductor could come past and click him in.

It wasn’t long before the train chugged into motion, and after being visited by the employee that kindly hole-punched his ticket, he pulled out a small notebook and a pen from his bag and began writing.

He wrote down the bits he remembered at the museum, a smaller Steve, the flying car, all of it. Once the page was full of fragments, he reached for the plum in his pocket that he swiped from the Union Station Market and took a bite. The scenery outside the window buzzed past.

***

Brooklyn was nothing like he thought he remembered. Hell, New York was nothing like he thought he had remembered. The traffic was no different, and he possibly recognized some of the older looking buildings, but everything else was foreign. There were so many lights and billboards and the noise was incredible. He saw on a postcard when he got off the train that New York was _the city that never sleeps_ and he could see why.

Something that worried him was the amount of people traipsing through the streets, even close to seven at night. The more people that were out meant a higher chance of being identified, or so he thought. Most people had their faces pointed downward towards their phone screens, or had that thousand mile stare as they headed to their destination. Anonymity was easy to achieve in a sea of people only interested in themselves and wherever they were going.

He found a discarded map pinned under a rock on the window sill of a bookstore. He didn’t really have a plan other than to get back to the city, and now that he was here, he had no idea what to do next.

It would probably be in his best interest to find shelter for the night. He passed a college dorm building that was locked up for the summer, so he discreetly hopped up the fire escape and shimmied open a window. The dorm was furnished with a bed and a desk, with an attached bathroom.

To his disappointment, there weren’t any towels left behind, so he did his best to wash up with just the soap and water from a kit he grabbed at a gym and patted himself dry with a spare t-shirt he had in his bag.

He steered clear of the window to eliminate the chance of someone spotting him on the street below. He was good at that - living like a ghost.

After pacing around, he finally curled up on the bare college provided mattress and shoved his bag under his head like a pillow. Jammed as close as he could be to the wall, he slept, crossing his arms across his chest.

Coney Island came to him in a dream.

_Come on punk, let’s ride the Cyclone._

_—No Buck, I don’t want to._

_I’ll hold your hand throughout the whole thing._

_—But I’m scared._

_Have I ever let anything bad happen to you?_

_—No…_

_It’ll be okay, I promise. I’m with you to the end of the line, pal._

He woke up startled, not wanting to let go of the memory. Memories were so fleeting, precious.

It looked like the sun was just coming up over the horizon, cutting rays of light through the buildings. He pulled his crewneck back over his head and left the empty dorm the same way he came.

He’d done some reading in the past week: Steve had a life, and a job working with a group known as the Avengers. He remembered the Avengers from a mission briefing that occurred maybe two years ago now. It was his job to know groups that could’ve been a threat to his handlers. They conveniently left Steve out of that conversation - maybe they realized he might remember him, even when he wasn’t allowed to.

He also caught a news report that Steve had returned to the Avengers’ Tower in Manhattan after being discharged from the V.A. hospital following the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Triskelion, so that’s where he had to go. He had to see Steve. It didn’t occur to him yet that he was a catalyst behind many historical events, assassinations, and destruction of governments.

Midtown Manhattan was due north of Brooklyn, so that’s where he went. Something Hydra did to him gave him an infallible internal compass, so he set out walking - one foot in front of the other.

***

He was sitting on a bench a block south of the Avengers Tower, just watching. In theory, he should’ve been able to walk right inside and turn himself in. Emotions shouldn’t be holding him back, yet there he was, frozen to the damn bench.

The doors at the ground floor of the Tower opened and a dark-skinned man in running shorts and shirt exited. He couldn’t be sure from this distance, but it was entirely possible that it was the same man he ripped the steering wheel from. Too bad the man wasn’t wearing a wing suit or goggles, then he would’ve known for sure.

The man started off running west, disappearing behind the corner.

After losing sight of the runner, he pulled his notebook out from his bag again and began writing again. No one paid him any attention.

The running man must’ve run in a square, around a few blocks, because he ended up finishing his lap wearily close to the bench. It was the winged man, for sure now. Unfortunately being close enough to identify the man also meant he got made.

He stood up from the bench immediately, not breaking eye contact with the man.

“Hey,” the man said carefully, not wanting to spook him away.

“Do you know who I am?” He asked, pulling his bag back around his shoulders.

The man looked at him, up and down. “You’re Steve’s friend, Bucky. My name is Sam.”

_Bucky._ That was the same thing Steve called him. “Is Steve here?”

Sam contemplated answering, but the way he looked up to the tower answered the question. “Why?”

_I’m with you until the end of the line, pal._

“I don’t do _that_ anymore.” He looked down. “I need help. And a place to go.”

_We can put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were kids._

“Okay, that’s okay. You know what? We can go in there, together.” Sam gestured to the building. “Steve’s inside, and I can get him.”

He nodded.

Sam led the way, leaving more than enough space between the two of them. He could tell Sam was nervous around him and trying to hide it, but that was understandable. He did almost kill him.

In the lobby, Sam told him to wait in one of the comfy chairs while he talked to the lady at the front desk. If Sam called in reinforcements, he didn’t know if he would run, or just accept his fate. He couldn’t bring himself to sit, so he ended up leaning against the wall, occasionally conducting a visual sweep of the room out of habit.

There was a clock somewhere in the vast room. Whether it was a large one, or a small wristwatch that his ears picked up, he could hear the time passing. Then a pronounced ding and a pair of footsteps broke through the rhythmic _tick tock tick tock._

__

Steve was there, standing unmoving a few paces in front of the elevator doors. His brows furrowed, caught somewhere between sadness and elation and not quite sure where to land.

Looking at him caused more pieces to fall into place. Steve was a mission, but not the one Hydra sent him on.

_—How about you? You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?_

_Hell, no. That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight. I’m following him._

He slid down the wall, and his hands - both flesh and metal - met to cover his face as tears welled in his eyes. He wasn’t supposed to act like this. He wasn’t supposed to cry.

_There is a tavern in the town, in the town_

_And there my true love sits him down, sits him down,_

_And drinks his wine as merry as can be,_

_And never, never thinks of me._

_Fare thee well, for I must leave thee,_

_Do not let this parting grieve thee,_

_And remember that the best of friends_

Steve’s hands were holding his shoulders. Bucky leaned forward into him, snaking his arms through to his back and holding onto him as if the world was ending. _His_ world was ending. Everything he thought he knew for the last however many years, all of his programming was shattered.

_Oh, dig my grave both wide and deep, wide and deep;_

_Put tombstones at my head and feet, head and feet_

_And on my breast you may carve a turtle dove,_

_To signify I died of love._

He doesn’t know how long he and Steve were sitting there entangled in each others arms. It could’ve been five minutes, or a whole eternity. All he knew for sure was that he was going to be okay, and maybe even become Bucky again.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you for reading :)  
> Just a note, the song featured at the end is The Drunkard Song, which is the one the Howling Commandos sang at the bar in Captain America: The First Avenger.


End file.
